


Fire and Ice: Hopelessly Devoted

by Falafel_Waffel



Series: Fire and Ice [1]
Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Fire and Ice Universe, For Sassy!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:53:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falafel_Waffel/pseuds/Falafel_Waffel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta Mellark should never go shot for shot with Thom ever again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice: Hopelessly Devoted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SassyEverlarking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEverlarking/gifts).



> I wrote this for Sassyeverlarking's birthday. or Shanksperian_Everlark here. 
> 
> She wanted Drunk!Peeta so I gave her Drunk!Peeta!
> 
> And fluff. 
> 
> Thank you Chelzie for fixing my mistakes, big and small.

I never thought I’d see the day where a divorce was reason to celebrate. It took a week to tastefully mourn the end of Gale’s marriage and get the kids acclimated to the idea that Gale and Johanna were getting married, and soon.

Tonight are their bachelor/ bachelorette parties, I guess. Considering Johanna is pregnant we can’t go out and get trashed, which is fine by me.

Annie, Delly, Simoné (Thresh’s new holy crap model-gorgeous girlfriend) and I are joining her for a movie night while we babysit Parker, Ethan and Celeste.

Celeste is still broken hearted about not being the baby anymore. She’s resorted to not talking to Johanna and calling me Mom to hurt her.

Delly, Annie, Simoné and I polish off two bottles of wine before the men even leave. “Oh my God, would you just get out of the house? I can smell your aftershave, Thresh!” Johanna scolds.

Peeta’s in one of his favorite pastel button ups with a tie that I bought for him. He looks so out of place not wearing orange, or a Flyers logo; they all do.

“Mmm, look at that. That’s my sexy beanstalk!”

“Shut up, pipsqueak!”

Peeta tugs on my braid and kisses me goodbye. “What are you watching?” he asks.

“Grease,” I tell him. In the background, Sandy is singing ‘Hopelessly Devoted’. “Now get out of the house! Your cabs have been waiting outside for ten minutes and we want to start talking shit about you guys.”

Being with these women is relaxing, especially since now we can’t step foot in Wells Fargo Center without someone calling us the ‘Puck Sluts’ or ESPN making comments when we go up to New York, Newark, or Washington, DC about our men not being able to go on the road without sex.

“Mom!” one of the boys screams from upstairs, “Parker won’t get off the Xbox! We agreed that we’d change when one of us died and he died twice, then changed the game to NHL ’12 so he couldn’t die!”

Johanna groans, but I get up instead. “Just stay still… You’re looking too pregnant to be rushing up and down the stairs.”

I get into the boys’ rooms with Celeste attached to me. Ethan is about to lynch Parker with a corded Xbox controller. “DYING MEANS YOU PASS THE CONTROLLER!” he shouts.

“Whoa! Ethan Hawthorne, get off your brother!” I scold, “Can’t you both play at the same time?”

“We want to play Xbox Live!” They go on and on about how they don’t want to mess up their Gamer score.

I sigh. “Want to play on Peeta’s Xbox?”

It doesn’t stop the yelling issue. They put on headsets and still call each other assholes and a few other words in French I can’t even try to pronounce.

But they’re out of our hair and even put themselves to bed not long after Johanna and I get Celeste down.

The other women retreat close to one as well; the bars close at two and we were almost positive that no man was coming home sober enough to find his bed.

Well, no man except for Thom and Thresh. Thom gets Gale upstairs to Johanna as Gale tells him just how happy he is for him and Delly.

“How much did he drink?” I ask, taking custody of my extremely drunk boyfriend.

“Well… He went shot for shot with Thom… and well, Thom’s a giant and Peeta’s like five ten in skates.”

“You guys have a game tomorrow, I mean today. Seriously?” I ask.

Thresh shrugs. “That goal horn is going to be a bitch. Good thing Peeta’s aim when he’s hungover is absolute shit. We’ll get the dirty reach around goals.” It sounds oddly homoerotic, but I would have brushed it off if Thresh wasn’t waggling his eyebrows.

“I am right the fuck here, man!” Peeta slurs, pulling away from Thresh. “I will…” he stumbles a little, “I will send you right back to the AHL.”

“Oh, so we’re back to speaking English?”

“Gotta speak English around Katniss. She doesn’t know French…  _Yet_.”

I roll my eyes. “And you speak like an uneducated French immigrant the second you’re in front of the camera, Mr. Mellark. Thank you for taking care of my idiot… I mean, boyfriend.”

Thom thumps downstairs, probably forgetting we have three kids and a pregnant woman in this house. Thresh makes a hasty retreat as Peeta casually rests his hand on my breast. I swat it away only for him to return to that spot. “Peeta, stop,” I caution.

Peeta sighs heavily and rests his weight on me. “You’re no fun… but I was thinking. You and I should get married some day.”

I roll my eyes. “This is the worst proposal ever. I don’t accept because you’re probably blackout drunk.”

“You called me French,” he slurs as I guide him to the bedroom. “I am French  _Canadian_ ,” he reminds me as he throws himself half on the bed.

“Peeta, get your ass on the bed. You’re too heavy for me to lift.”

He flails, his foot almost hitting my face. “Can we cuddle, but naked?”

“In a little bit. Ugh, you smell like bar!” It’s a smell I’m used to, but only in the ‘I tolerate this’ sense. Philadelphia has made smoking in bars illegal, though I know there are some establishments in Pennsylvania that allow it. I have no idea where these guys went, but he smells like an alcohol-soaked ashtray.

I start stripping Peeta. I have to get him into the shower before his odor makes  _me_  vomit. “Babe, hold out your hand and close your eyes; I’ve got something for you!”

I do as I’m told, learning it’s better to not argue with a belligerently drunk Peeta unless he’s trying to drive or do something where balance is necessary.

Peeta sets something in my hand that’s hard and a little moist. “Okay, open your eyes.”

I do so and look down at his tooth. “This is the worst engagement ring ever,” I joke, going to set it in the cup of water on the counter like Peeta does every sober night.

“Guess mine is not the first heart broken!” I hear coming from the bedroom as I fill the cup with tap water. “My eyes are not the first to cry. I’m not the first to know, there’s just no getting over you…”

I come out of the bathroom, trying to ignore his off key singing. Peeta and I came to realize that this part of the house can’t be heard very well from the rest after one of their more adventurous escapades.

I get Peeta’s shoes and socks off followed by his pants, and he just keeps going. “You know I’m just a fool who’s willing, to sit around and wait for you. But, baby, can’t you see, there’s nothing else for me to do?”

I press a finger to Peeta’s lips. “Honey, you have to be a little quieter…” I tell him while pulling at the knot in his tie until it’s finally loose.

He stops singing. “I’m hopelessly devoted to you, Katniss, and you won’t even accept my proposal.” At first I think he’s serious, but he has that shit eating grin on that he adopts when drunk.

Peeta takes a deep breath and I know what’s coming. “But now there’s nowhere to hide, since you pushed my love aside!” he nearly shouts. I climb on him to cover his mouth. We’re still here conditionally. Peeta’s going to finish out the season, then put his winter stuff in storage before we head to Ottawa. The last thing we need is for Gale and Johanna to kick us out. “I’m out of my head! Hopelessly devoted to you…”

He finishes the song strong. “You know that last song in the movie?” I assume he’s still on Grease, “I watched Grease when I was learning English and goddamn!” He goes off on a French tangent for a few seconds and I refuse to follow. “What were they smoking in the fifties?”

“You know that movie was shot in like the eighties, right?”

“Yeah, whatever. I am the uneducated immigrant, after all. Bitch, I  _went_  to high school. In my line of work, you don’t need your fancy bachelor’s degree in elementary education!” He gets a gold star for remembering what I studied. “Do you know what deking is?”

I pin his hands above his head when he starts to go for my breasts again. “You mean a fake-out? Short for decoy? I’ve been hanging out with Delly, you know.”

Peeta sighs. “I really want to fuck you. You’re going to think this is me joking, but my serious face is on, see?” he points to his mouth, which is a flat line. “Serious face. I want to rip those sweats off you and fuck you, but whiskey dick,” he whines.

I roll off to the side. “You wanted naked cuddling, Peeta; that’s all you’re getting.”

Peeta sighs loudly, like a spoiled child. “Can I at least finger fuck you?”

After I push him into the shower, get him clean, and make sure he brushes his teeth without drinking the water in the cup containing his tooth, Peeta spoons me while methodically playing in my folds. Much to my surprise, he gets me off before passing out.

The next morning, he explains that he doesn’t remember anything that happened after being approached by a woman who knew his stats, and backing away slowly to rejoin the guys. I don’t remind him of the out of the blue proposal, or the serenading.

Alcohol and hockey seem to go hand in hand. Since October, I’ve never seen a player decline a beer, a shot, or even a glass of wine. Add a bachelor party/divorce celebration and guys are bound to get fucked up.

My payment for my services is just how loud Wells Fargo gets as Peeta’s new line mate and man crush, Jagr, sets him up for not one, not two, but  _three_  goals. The first agonizing beep of the Doop Song fills the stadium as the horn blasts.

I watch on the big screen above the ice as my boyfriend winces and fans throw their hats onto the ice to celebrate Peeta’s hat trick.

I don’t get to enjoy Peeta’s joy filled discomfort for long. Annie and Delly remind me that hat tricks in hockey are what Valentine’s Day is in the real world. Mandatory sex night.

God fucking dammit.


End file.
